


Last Man Standing

by twdsunshine



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-07 10:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twdsunshine/pseuds/twdsunshine
Summary: ‘You’re gonna be the last man standing.’  Someone had told Daryl Dixon that a long time ago, and now it’s true.  His family are gone, the communities wiped out by disease and conflict. Even the walkers are beginning to crumble into nothing with no fresh meat to sustain them.  So, he walks, keeps moving to avoid the reality of his situation and fight off the loneliness that chills his bones. Setting up camp on the coast, he resigns himself to the fact that this is it: this is the rest of his life, however long he’s got left.  And then he meets the reader.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, this story has been brewing for a long time and I think it might be one of my favourite things that I’ve written so far, so I’m putting it out there with my fingers crossed, hoping you all love it as much as I do. It is three parts in total and will post on Wednesdays over the next few weeks, and I am so so so excited to finally share it with you! Thank you in advance for taking the time to check this out. Happy reading!

Pain.  That’s all there was now.  It had crawled into his chest and taken root in his heart, embedding its thick, jagged spines into the splintered organ and pumping its black poison through his veins with every traitorous beat.  He could feel it deadening his mind, churning in the pit of his stomach and dragging on his limbs like clanking iron shackles.  It was all-consuming, eating away at him a little more every day, until he felt like the scattered walkers that still remained, roaming the highways in search of some sort of sustenance, their numbers dwindling as their bodies crumbled into dust.  

There was nothing left for them to eat.  There was nothing left at all.  Once there had been a network of communities, groups of people - living, breathing people - thriving behind fences and walls, building a new society, creating something good out of the ravages of a war that had dragged them all under.  When he wracked his brain in the darkness of the night, he could just about find that feeling he’d had back then - optimism, hope, and more than anything, an overriding loyalty to the people that he considered his family, to Rick and to Maggie and Carol.  They were gone now.

It had started with an infection.  Just a few people, coughing and sneezing and rubbing their bleary, bloodshot eyes.  Nobody had thought anything of it and that had been their first mistake.  Infections spread and they spread fast, and when antibiotics are limited and the people that have the knowledge on how to make more are the ones lying in the hospital beds…  Well, they hadn’t stood a chance really.  There was no cure, no pattern as to who would survive and who would die.  It didn’t differentiate between the old and weak or the young and strong.  It just continued to steal lives away faster than anyone thought possible, leaving the fenced off villages eerily empty as the survivors fought to keep going.  

But it wasn’t just the virus that they had to contend with.  A vicious quake had shaken the earth, destroying what they had worked so hard to build, bringing it tumbling down and burying an entire workforce beneath the wreckage.  The news had slowly rolled in from the others, spread out across Virginia and into the neighbouring states.  It had been the same everywhere.  Too many lost, and vital resources wiped out, leaving food and medicines in short supply.  Expecting things to continue as normal, that the communities would come together to rebuild just as they had done before, that had been the second mistake.

With resources limited and a population that was already struggling, it was only a matter of time before conflict broke out.  Nobody was prepared for another war, and yet, there seemed to be no choice.  Each group was like a family and, like a family, they would always put their own above the lives of others.  Bloody battles broke out over seeds and stock and fertile land, and, in the end, there were no winners.  Life wiped out because humanity at its base form was selfish and greedy and afraid.  That had been their final mistake.  The remnants of the societies bled out on stretchers or slipped away in makeshift hospital beds hours after their return from the killing fields.  And now, there was only Daryl.  

The last man standing.

He couldn’t be sure of course.  America was a big place and he would never get to see it all.  He’d made the journey to the communities in their network, fully expecting to be taken in and held under armed guard whilst they checked out his intel on the fall of his home, but he found them empty.  There was no one left.  So, he walked, zigzagging across the state and heading north, crossing borders, roaming through unknown territories, always searching, always listening for the sounds of voices, the echoes of lives being lived.

He was old now, his dark hair struck through with silver, and his craggy face more deeply-lined than ever.  His skin was tanned and weathered, the muscles beneath sinewy but strong through his constant movement.  He sometimes wondered whether anyone that had known him before would even recognise him now.  He was sure he wouldn’t recognise himself.  The past year alone on the road had been strenuous and it had ground him down, bringing him to his knees, only to build him up again into someone harder, colder.  His piercing blue eyes were windows into a soul tormented by guilt and misery, and some days he would have given anything just to lay down and let death claim him, but he wasn’t going to go out like that.  He’d come too far to die through his own lack of motivation and fear of what came next.

And so, he kept walking, kept moving, rambling along winding country lanes and wandering empty cities.  Though it was safer now that the walkers’ numbers had declined so drastically, it was eerier than it had been before.  Silent.  No drum of footsteps on the sidewalk or shuffle of rotting limbs pursuing the next kill, the next meal.  No buzz of chatter or clip clop of horses’ hooves.  No rattle of gunfire or squelching thuds of flesh hitting flesh.  There was nothing but Daryl’s own steady breathing, the rhythm of his own feet on the street beneath him and the soft hiss of the wind as it blew against his back, propelling him forward, forever marching onwards towards the next town of ghosts.

 

* * *

 

The first time that he’d glimpsed the sea, the sight had invigorated him, sparkling on the horizon.  It had appeared so far away and yet it seemed to take only moments for him to reach the shore.  Whereas the endless miles of road seemed daunting and lonely, somehow the vastness of the ocean brought him comfort, and he waded into its depths, not bothering to shed his clothes.  The water was cool, refreshing, washing away the layers of dirt and dust that had built up over the miles, the saltiness making his eyes sting as he submerged himself.  For the first time in a long time he felt a part of something and, as he lay back and let the movement of the waves carry him, he resolved that he would make his home there on the small strip of beach, let the tides bring him peace.  The caw of gulls overhead made a welcome change from the quiet of the cities, and sholes of silvery fish danced around his feet, unaffected by the chaos that had reigned on land for too long.  He could live out his days here.  He could settle at last.

The decision to stop, to let himself rest, to live out the rest of his days on the beach, rejuvenated him, and it was with a fresh burst of energy that he strode from the water, shaking crystal droplets from his hair as he stooped to tug his battered, leather boots from his feet.  His toes sunk into the sand, its warmth soothing the ache in his soles that he’d known for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to live without it.  His muscles complained as he picked his way over to his discarded pack and bow, retreating to the overhanging cliff face and following the winding path that it cut across the landscape.  High above, squinting into the sun, he could just make out the thick thatch of birds’ nests perched in the nooks and crannies of the rock, and he thought when the tide was further out that he might even hear the high-pitched cheeps of the babies inside.  Life.  It still existed here.  

Scrambling over a ragged outcrop, he found that the next bay was more sheltered, a narrow inlet bordered on three sides by the cliff face, protected from the most extreme of the elements: gusting wind, scorching sun or driving rain.  And it was there that he lowered himself onto the golden ground, tossing his boots aside and setting his crossbow down carefully, and began to unpack his life.

Out came the tent that he rarely bothered to use, the canvas sagging, the poles bent, just big enough for him; the bundle of covers that he’d snagged from his bed before he’d left the remains of his community behind; then the single change of clothes that he’d thought to grab, crusted with mud and blood - the salt water would soon take care of that; a water bottle which he drank from now, sipping cautiously, knowing he couldn’t afford to waste it until he tracked down a fresh water source nearby.  He’d find one, he was sure.  He knew all of the signs.  He hadn’t deemed it necessary to keep anything sentimental, any reminders of those he’d loved and lost.  It would have been extra weight on his shoulders, adding to his burden, and besides, his memories were the only reminder he needed.  It wasn’t much to show for a life that had seen pain and laughter and friendship and death over the decades, but it had proved to be all that he required.

As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, it painted the waves in burning gold and then, as the moon appeared, suspended in inky black, the ocean seemed to glow, gleaming ripples chasing him up the shore before ebbing away, receding as the tide crept out.  His arms were straining against the driftwood he’d collected as he retraced his steps back to camp, veins raised, fingers scraping over the worn bark.  It was a ritual he had to follow.  It was his way of reinforcing that this was now home, that his journey was done.  Set up his tent, build a fire, sit by it for a while as the night deepened, listening to the neverending whisperings of the sea.  He’d done it before, not on the coast but on the top floor of an abandoned tower block, in a small clearing in the woods, in the barn of a rundown farmyard.  But each time his restlessness had won out over his longing for a place of his own and he’d packed up and moved on once again.  This time felt different.  He was old and he was tired and he ached right down to the marrow of his weary bones.  This time he knew he would stay.  He was done searching.

And stay he did.  The ocean provided almost all that he could ever need: it kept his body clean, his muscles strong as he forced himself to swim against the current, fighting the natural flow as he felt he’d done his whole life; the cool swells eased the aches that had taken root in his joints, the kink in his spine from too many years spent sleeping on the floor; it washed the dirt from his clothes and rid them of the rich earthy odour of blood and dirt and sweat; it fed him far better than he’d eaten in years, filling his belly with fresh fish, grilled over an open flame and swallowed down with fresh water from the small stream that tumbled from some outlet high up on the cliff-face.  He travelled the coast for miles some days, pushing on, enjoying the sensation of walking for leisure rather than need, the sea foaming around his ankles and the call of the gulls shrill overhead, but he always returned to the little inlet that he’d made his own, to his camp and his fire, and he’d watch the sun set and try his hardest to find an inner peace inside that might reflect this new life that he’d built.

When he’d been out on the road, he’d found that the days dragged on, endless toil pushing him beyond the brink of exhaustion, and the nights would pass in a flash, the sun’s watery rays dragging him reluctantly back to consciousness with the knowledge that he had more ground to cover, more land to search.  Now that he’d resigned himself to his fate, that had all changed.  The days were relaxed, whiled away doing simple chores, paddling, swimming, and perhaps carving shapes out of the driftwood that washed up - a small dog, a squirrel, a little girl with a sweet smile and eyes that spoke of a warrior’s heart (he tried not to spare the inspiration for that piece too much thought, afraid that his aging heart might shatter).  But the nights…

Oh, how he longed for the evenings when he’d crash as dusk fell and sleep deeply and dreamlessly ‘til the morning.  Instead, this new version of himself, undriven and unchallenged, left him with too much time to think, and he was haunted by nightmares, familiar faces flashing through head: that same little girl, older and with a determined set to those delicate features; a woman his own age with a head of striking silver hair and a manner that made him feel like he might not be quite as broken as he’d once thought; a boy with an eyepatch and a handgun whose face would never know the ravages of age; and a sheriff who hadn’t made it long enough to see what had become of the world he’d worked so hard to rebuild.  He’d see them as they’d been in life, and his heart would warm and a smile would quirk his lips, even as he slumbered, but then he’d see their deaths: filmy eyes, sweat-slicked skin, a pool of blood and a towering inferno of flickering flames.

He’d wake in a panic, on edge, reaching for his crossbow though there was no enemy left to fight, and he’d lay there, in the darkness, listening to his own heart pound in his ears, until the ebb and flow of the tide would wash his fear away, replacing it with a growing sense of calm, and sleep would inevitably claim him again.

 

* * *

 

Time had become senseless on the beach.  The days blurred into one another, meaning nothing, achieving nothing with their passing, and Daryl went about his usual routine because what else would he do.  So, on the morning when he was woken by an unfamiliar sound, drifting toward him on the breeze, he didn’t know how long it had been since he’d decided to stay.  Weeks definitely, months surely?  Long enough that he knew that the sound didn’t belong there, wasn’t one of the many that alerted him to the coast waking up as the sun rose.  It was wavering and distorted by distance, but worthy of investigation nonetheless.  If nothing else, it would pass an hour, several, a day, to trek along the coastline in search of the source, and that would be less time that he spent contemplating his own existence and wallowing in the shadows of his nightmares.  There had been times over the past few years when he’d spent far too long chasing after the rustle of a plastic bag, the whistle of wind through a crevice in a rock, the persistent drip of water from a length of collapsed guttering, but he’d never regretted the action.  Because in that moment, for however long his search went on, he had a purpose, a goal, a destination, and now, it seemed, he had one again, at least for a short while.

His bow swung from his shoulder and a small net that he’d weaved from bits and pieces that had washed up and lain for years, unused in the crease when the sand met the rocks, was threaded through his belt, in case his search should be fruitless and he decided to cast it out for an hour or two.  He didn’t bother with boots anymore, the sand crunching beneath his feet as he pressed on, and the day had a refreshing chill to the air, as though, even at that moment, a storm might be moving in.  Though his camp was sheltered enough, bordered as it was by cliffs on three sides, he was sure that some of the other inlets could be treacherous in foul weather, and he increased his speed, suddenly eager to get his search over before his worst suspicions came into play.

He strained his ears against the wind that had sprung up as he’d covered the golden miles, buffeting the cliffs and tossing salty spray against his lonely figure, and heard the noise again, almost tuneful, a pattern repeating over and over.  A long-lost memory buried deep in the back of his brain whispered,  _music_ , but he suppressed it.  He did it without thinking now, a method of self-preservation designed to extinguish even the slightest flicker of hope.  And yet…

He could see movement, a slip of a shadow dancing around the small rock pools and boulders, dipping and ducking and diving, and his survival instincts kicked in.  A walker perhaps, struggling to keep up a steady gait with the sink and suck of the wet sand.  He reached for his bow, pausing to slide a bolt into place before bringing it up in front of him, creeping ever closer, eyes narrowed.  Walkers weren’t much of a threat these days, slow and weak if they were still managing to exist at all, but complacency was something he’d never been guilty of.  But this was unlike any walker he’d ever seen, he realised, as the figure leapt onto a jagged boulder of rock, studded with barnacles, and twirled, seemingly shouting into the wind, arms raised.

And then she saw him.

Daryl was frozen in place as the source of the noise that he’d been so desperate to track down stopped in her slow spin on the stage that she’d created for herself.  Her body dropped into a low crouch and then she was springing back down onto the sand like a cat, lithe and almost predatory, stalking towards him with confident, measured steps as though it was completely expected that she should bump into another living, breathing human on this beach, right here, right now, and not a complete contradiction to everything that she’d thought she’d known.

And then she was standing before him, drawn up to her full height which was still a head or more shorter than Daryl, he thought, eyes blazing with self-righteous fire and hair billowing out behind her as a gust of wind caught it and pulled it back from her face, revealing that she was very much not a corpse and, it seemed, very, very angry.

‘Well,’ she announced, and God, if her voice wasn’t just the best thing that he’d heard in several long, heart-wrenchingly lonely years.  'It’s about damn time!  I’ve been waiting for you.’


	2. Chapter 2

‘You’re not what I expected.’  She was cocking her head to one side, circling him slowly, and he turned with her, unwilling to tear his eyes away for a single second in case she should disappear, turning out to be a figment of his imagination, a mirage or something like it.  'I mean, I thought it’d be a scythe for a start, not whatever that thing is.’  She gestured at his bow.  ‘And you ditched the whole hooded robes thing.  Good for you.  Guess there’s not much point in keeping up appearances when there’s nobody left to freak out, right?’

Daryl could only gawp at her.  She was talking at him as though she expected him to know what she was talking about, when, of course, he didn’t have a clue, and he thought it would be just his luck that the first survivor that he’d seen in years, possibly the only other person alive in the country, the continent, the whole damn world, would be completely raving mad.  But his lack of response, of action, seemed to cause her to falter, this girl with eyes full of fiery indignation and a voice like the sweetest honey, and then her face dropped and all of the air escaped her lungs in a rushed exhale, almost as if she’d been winded.  

‘Oh my God.’  Gone was the attitude and the accusation, replaced with incredulous disbelief.  'Oh, no.  No way.  You can’t-  You can’t be…’  Unable to finish her sentence, she took a shaky step forward, pushing aside his weapon as though it didn’t contain a deadly bolt pointed directly at her skull.  Soft fingers found his face, ghosting over his jawline, brushing through the thick scruff on his chin, and her sharp intake of breath echoed his own.  'You’re alive.’

Daryl had opened his mouth to speak after that, to voice his own shock, relief, ecstasy, at having found that he wasn’t the lone soul left on this bleak, lifeless rock, but only a breathy groan had made it past his lips.  When was the last time he’d spoken?  He couldn’t remember, couldn’t pinpoint a date, and he realised with horror that perhaps he’d lost the ability years ago and been completely oblivious until now.  He’d never been much of a talker and he certainly wasn’t one to talk to himself, and so his days were mostly spent in silence.  

She was nodding slowly, understanding moulding her features into a kind expression that made him want to fall into her, to beg her to touch him again, to hold him…  ‘Lost your voice?  I’m not surprised with how long it’s probably been.  Same thing nearly happened to me.  I opened my mouth to scream one day and almost nothing came out.  That’s why I sing.’

So it had been music that he’d heard, that had forged his path from his camp to here, to her.  Recognition must have flashed across his face because she was nodding again.  'Guess you must’ve heard me, huh?  Probably thought you were going crazy.  Feels a little less crazy than talking to myself though, y'know?  Don’t even remember the words half the time so I just make 'em up.  Sure beats silence.’

'I guess you’re probably wondering what that was.  Me, coming over here all-  with the-  I just, I thought…’  She trailed off, getting nowhere in her battle to force as many words out as she could, revelling in the novelty of having someone to listen, to hear her after all this time.  'I thought you were death.  I have nightmares about him sometimes, the reaper, y'know?  I imagine that I could see him there, standing over the hospital beds and floating across the battlefields.  I’ve been… I’ve been waiting for him to come for me, kinda hoping for it, actually.’  

He knew that feeling all too well and he tried to get that across with his eyes.  It might have worked because her lips quirked in a small smile and she reached out to brush her fingers over his face again, as though she was still unable to believe that he was truly there.  'Instead, I found you.’

 

* * *

 

They were the last words she spoke for a long while.  He assumed that she was overwhelmed, as he was, by this discovery, this culmination of a search that he’d assumed to be endless in the finding of another person, flesh and blood and spirit.  And, as her eyes raked over his face, he knew that he was right.  She was blown away by the image of him, standing before her, and he thought he might not have seen anyone in the world that was ever so perfect and so real and so tangible.  Their gazes locked and, right there, he felt himself give a piece of his heart to her, a piece so long protected, even before, simply for the raw need to give it to somebody, for somebody to own it, use it, keep it, before his time was up.  And though she might look fragile, delicate, wrinkling her toes in the sand as the wind nipped at her skin, in reality she must be a fighter to have come so far.  She’d earned his respect and, by sheer coincidence that they were the last two people standing, his love along went with it, because, with her standing there, within touching distance, he was no longer alone.  And he loved her for that, to her very bones, whoever she might turn out to be.

When the icy bite of rain broke into his reverie, disrupting them both from their intense study, their familiarisation with the other, she whispered three little words and he was under her spell: ‘Come with me.’  

And, of course, he did.  Because where else would he go?  Back to his camp, void of anything remotely personal or sentimental, simply an empty shell where he could lay his head at night and feel as though he had a place in the world?  No.  And so, he followed her as she picked her way back along the beach, edging closer to the cliffs as the downpour grew heavier, tilting her face up to the sky and letting the water wash away any trace of the tears that she’d been fighting.  Her clothes clung to her body as she led him, and he found himself captivated by her movements, the swing of her hips and her long, loping gait, so different to the corpses’ jerking, jolting shuffle.  Every step was like a dance and he hurried to keep up, wanting to be at her side so that she couldn’t leave him, slip away in the split second that his attention was captured by a crashing wave or the cry of a bird.  

When she started to climb, slim fingers dipping into crevices in the rock that he may not have even noticed if he wasn’t so intrigued by her every move, he followed, clumsily, struggling to gain purchase against the cliff, but determined to keep up, to keep going.  Higher and higher they went, her pausing to wait for him every now and then, watching his progress through wide eyes, and then she disappeared and he found that he was hauling himself onto a flat surface, out of the rain and the wind and the oncoming storm.  His lungs burned with the exertion of the climb, and long seconds passed as he lay recovering, aware of her moving around him but unable to lift his head to see what she was doing.  Only the bitter scent of smoke finally bid him to move and, as he pushed himself up on his elbows, he saw that she’d lit a small fire, the flickering flames throwing shadows against the walls of the cave in which he now found himself.  

She was on her knees, warming her hands, though she still dripped rain from the ends of her hair and the tip of her nose, and he shuffled closer, copying her movements, realising that the glow in his chest was a stark contrast to the shivers that were racking his body.  His shirt was several shades darker than it had been when he set out, soaked through and heavy with water, and his trousers hadn’t fared much better, but his hands and feet grew toasty as the cave filled with heat, and that was enough for now.

‘Do you mind if I talk?’  She’d been gazing at him intently as he settled down, and he glanced up at her, giving a brief shake of his head.  Mind?  No, never.  He could listen to her all day, every day, and he would never get enough.  A voice.  A real, human voice.  It was like a tonic to the damage that the world had done.  ‘It seems kinda rude when you can’t talk back, but I hate silence.  If you want me to shut up, just… I don’t know, raise your hand or something.’

He nodded.

‘You from around here?’

A nod.  A shake of his head.  A shrug.  Honestly, he didn’t really know where he was anymore, where he’d been or where he’d come from.  The places had merged into one, endless lengths of road, all the same, really.  Empty.  Lonely.  Quiet.  

‘I know what you mean.  All starts to look the same after a while, doesn’t it?  I think I must’ve seen more of America since everything went to hell than most people do in a lifetime.  A regular lifetime, I mean.  We had a camp…  somewhere.  Nebraska, I think.  Just small at first, but then we found others.  More and more.  And we grew.  Almost like a proper town, with solar power and a wind farm and trade.  Was it like that for you?’

Yes.  It had been.  Before.  Another nod.

‘I guess communities like ours must’ve been springing up all over.  Hard to know really, wasn’t it, without telephones or internet or cars?  Only so far you can push a horse before it buckles.  But we always had a feeling we wouldn’t be the only ones, especially when we found others like us within ten, maybe twenty miles or so.  So many survivors, we could barely believe it.  That’s when things started getting good again.’

Not for them.  Their first discovery of communities other than their own had led to war, the first war, all out war with the Saviors, and that had taken a long time to come back from.  

‘Did you guys get the bug?  That virus thing?  My brother said it just like the plague they had in England back in the dark ages or something.  He’d read about it in a history textbook.  Sure did a number on us.’

Daryl remembered.  He remembered far too well what that damn sickness had done to his family, decimating his people.  Even the strong ones - Michonne, Rosita - had fallen victim to that.  He’d done what he could, but he wasn’t a doctor and meds were scarce.  He could still hear their ragged breathing, smell the scent of death on their breath.

‘I’m sorry.  You probably don’t wanna hear all this.’  He wondered if his trauma was evident in his face, seeking to neutralise his expression, wanting more than anything for her to go on.  ‘Hey, you got a name?’

A name.  Of course, he had a name.  But he had no voice to share it and it had been far too long since anyone had used it anyway.  He stared down at his feet, waiting for her to realise her mistake but, when he raised his head again, she was holding out a stump of chalk and gesturing at the wall behind him.  He twisted to reach, taking time to carefully mark out each letter.  His writing was almost childlike on the uneven surface, barely readable, and she squinted as she leant forward before rocking back on her heels with a satisfied smile.  ‘Daryl.  I like it.  It suits you.’

He felt the tips of his ears redden as he tossed the chalk back to her, letting himself slump against the wall now that the worst of the chill had faded away.  

‘I’m Y/N.  You have no idea how nice it is to meet you, Daryl.’

But, obviously, he did.

 

* * *

 

She talked on and off as the day wore on, afternoon shifting into evening and dark clouds gathering, hanging low over the water outside.  She told him about her family, the farm where she grew up and the dog she’d had as a kid.  She told him about her studies, how she’d worked her ass off to get good grades in the hope of going to college, but that the dead had started walking just a few short weeks before she was due to take up her place there.  She told him about the beat-up old truck that she’d stolen from outside a mall when the family’s SUV had crapped out, that had lasted her all the way up until there’d been no fuel left to run it, and how it had broken her heart to leave it to rot in one corner of her group’s compound.  The pictures that she painted with her words were so vivid that he could picture her big brother teasing her over dinner, the scraggy mutt that had stuck to her side whenever she was out in the yard, and the bedroom that she spent hours in, hunched over her books.  He could even picture the truck, thinking it sounded a lot like the one Merle used to drive, so that he could imagine the old creaks and clunks that drowned out the engine as she drove it down the winding country lanes.  It had been a long time since he’d pictured something good, something other than dead friends and the images that haunted his dreams.

They feasted on a gull that she’d taken down with a slingshot the night before, roasted on the open flames, and, though Daryl’s eyes grew weary, he found that he was terrified to let them close.  He wanted to hold on to this moment forever, still half-convinced that she would melt away in the night and leave him bereft, unable to go on knowing what he could have had.  A friend, a companion, someone to live out his days with.  He knew with absolute certainty that losing her now, after having shared a meal with her, listened to her stories, smelt the sea-salt perfume that clung to her skin, would kill him.  

But she was settling down, stretching out beside the fire, clothes long dry, though her gaze remained fixed on him as he mirrored her movements, easing himself down on the other side of the narrow cave, cushioning his head on the crook of his elbow.

‘I’m scared you’ll disappear if I fall asleep,’ she admitted, and he smiled, a real smile, a genuine smile of compassion.  ‘If you do, just know that I needed this, more than I can say.  This has been the best day that I’ve had for a long time.  You might’ve just saved my life, Daryl Dixon.’

And she had definitely, and in the most wonderful way, saved him.

 

* * *

 

Daryl woke to the pad of footsteps moving around him, immediately alert, disorientated, springing upright ready to address the threat.  His fingers scrabbled blindly for his bow as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight streaming in, and it took several long moments before his racing pulse began to subside.  She was still there, watching his startled movements with amusement in her eyes, and she greeted him with a smile as he settled.  

‘Good morning.’

He gave a short nod, his face flushing with heat, partly from his embarrassment at waking in such a way, and partly in relief that the previous day hadn’t been a cruel and beautiful dream.  Her skin was dewy in the morning light, hair damp, and he wondered what time she’d risen to have already been out in the ocean, but of course, he couldn’t ask, so instead he reached out to take the chipped mug of water that she offered.

The fire had dwindled overnight, and she stoked it now, adding another length of driftwood, before sinking down cross-legged on the other side of it, her own mug clasped in her hands.  She wrapped her fingers around it as though she were warming them on a steaming cup of coffee or indulgent hot chocolate, and Daryl found himself thinking how normal it felt, to sit opposite her, sipping from his drink, almost as though they were sitting around a table, sharing breakfast.  

‘Is it weird that this doesn’t feel weird?’ she asked, echoing his thoughts.  ‘I mean, we could literally be sitting in my kitchen right now, drinking cheap coffee before we head off to work.  Funny how easy it is to fall back into old routines, isn’t it?’

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to one side, unable to explain the reason for his bemusement.  Although he’d been thinking along the same lines, it wasn’t an old routine for him.  He’d never been one to sit around the table, sharing a meal.  His family hadn’t been those type of people and that had stuck with him, even when they’d found the Safe Zone.  But this, with her, out in the open, the sound of the waves down below… This was different.  It felt good.

He cast his eyes around the cave, able to see more now that the sun had reemerged, fighting away the rain and the wind to reign supreme once again.  It was spartan, but that was to be expected.  A large pack sat in the far corner, a blanket and small pile of folded clothes beside it.  The fire dominated the confined space, and next to that were the plates they’d eaten from the night before, freshly washed and ready to reuse.  

Noticing the focus of his attention, she gestured around her home.  ‘I know, it’s pretty bare.  Haven’t been here long.  A week, maybe two.  Hard to tell.  I spend most days walking the beach, picking up whatever I find that might be useful.  Honestly, I normally head the other way.  The bays are a little bigger, the cliffs aren’t so sheer.  I guess, I figured I’d be able to get up to higher ground easier if the tide caught me out.  Until yesterday.  That’s probably why you never heard me before.’

He nodded.  He’d been wondering that himself, how long she’d been around, how he’d missed her when she’d been so close by, relatively speaking, just a few hours walk away.  He’d hiked that stretch of the coast over and over since he’d made camp, and never before had he even had an inkling that he might not be alone.  

‘I’m glad you did,’ she added, and he wondered if she was just seeking to fill the silence, though the look in her eyes as they met his was sincere.  ‘Hear me, I mean.  Last night’s sleep was the best I’ve had in…  forever, it seems like.  I’m really glad you’re here.’

He supposed the same was true for him, he realised then.  No nightmare had dragged him from his slumber, no faces scrolling through his mind, weighing him down with grief and guilt and that nagging sense of loneliness.  But then, he wasn’t alone anymore.  It had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d heard that sound, the beautiful music that had drawn him in, and in that time everything had changed.  And, for the first time in a very long time, it was a change for the better.


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever Daryl had found himself in human company before, it had been a struggle to feel comfortable around them, to reach a point where their habits and foibles didn’t aggravate and drive him to seek solitude.  But with Y/N it was easy.  She talked almost constantly, but he found that it soothed him.  He liked to listen to her rambling on, the varying tones of her voice, the way her pitch heightened when she was excited or darkened when she was feeling down, and the sweet tunes she sang, echoing along the beach.  He liked finding himself surrounded by the scent of her, sweet and floral with the tang of sea-salt, filling his lungs.  He liked cooking with her, taking turns in the preparation and roasting of the day’s catch over the open fire, and how she looked to him to carry the heavy bottles of water they filled each morning at a small stream that snaked down through the rock and filtered into a little pool a few miles up the coast.  

He didn’t think she seemed to mind having him around either.  She’d taken to him as though he’d been a lifelong friend, letting him into her home without question, immediately trusting despite having obviously been through something like he had, and having every reason to turn and flee at the sight of another living person.  But loneliness could break down those walls almost too easily, and he found that he was part of her family before he’d had time to even consider what that might mean.

It was an arrangement with which they were both content, and, if Daryl caught her looking at him somewhat wistfully sometimes, those big, beseeching eyes tinged with sadness, then he tried to force it from his mind.  He knew she missed conversation, that she tired of hearing her own voice, but he offered all he could, small smiles and nods of encouragement, and he was satisfied that he could do no more, no matter how much he might want to.  His presence alone seemed to have banished the nightmares she spoke of sometimes, when it grew dark and cold and the nights drew in, and, when the horrors of his past forced their way into his dreams, taunting and tugging at his heart and churning in his stomach, she was there, resting a gentle hand on his cheek to wake him.  When he’d finally surface, panting and afraid, she’d curl up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder and stretching an arm over his broad barrel chest, and hold him until he felt able to drift back off again.

It wasn’t the life either of them had had before, perhaps not a life that they would ever have wished for, given a choice, but it was the best form of existence that either had had in years and for that they were both grateful.  Or so Daryl thought.

 

* * *

 

They’d felt the storm brewing, the bite to the breeze and that freshness in the air that spoke of rain on its way, but, when it hit, it had been fiercer than they’d imagined.  Unlike the downpour that had drenched them on the beach the first day they’d found each other, this storm brought with it almighty claps of thunder that seemed like they might split the landscape in two, and lightning that lit the shore in eerie flashes, illuminating the world in its gruesome glow.

They’d retreated to the cave in a hurry, sheltering within its walls, their elevation keeping them safe from the waves as they surged over the sand, encroaching on the cliff face, brutal and relentless.  The fire’s heat did little to fight the cold, and they both began to shiver as the minutes crept past, though it took a while before Daryl realised that Y/N’s trembles were borne of more than just the chill that penetrated her clothes.  Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, her body tensing with every rumble that rolled towards them, jerking with each fork of electricity that spiked across the sky.  He wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen her this way before, and he edged quietly closer, unnoticed until he was at her side.  

‘I-I lost people in a storm like this.  Everything was fine, quiet, just a normal run, and then… I guess it’s the noise, right?  Thunder, echoing ‘round the hills, throws the walkers off, gets ‘em all riled up or whatever.’  A choked sob silenced her for a moment and she ducked her head, fighting to maintain control.  ‘There were so many of them, and they just kept coming.  They were everywhere, and the lightning was flashing, and I couldn’t see… I didn’t know…’  This time when her body tensed against another wave of misery, she let it sweep her under, weeping freely, unashamedly, and a lump formed in Daryl’s throat.  He’d never seen her like this, her grief so openly on display, and it reminded him of his own losses.

He’d often wished that he could dig deep and find his voice from wherever it had disappeared to, hidden away somewhere inside of him, but never more so in that moment, to be able to comfort her, to be able to tell her that he knew what it was like and that it was all okay, because they had each other now.  Because he knew that the fear of finding yourself alone once again didn’t go away, even as the days, weeks and months passed in each other’s company.  They’d each had company before - family, friends, communities, thriving and full of life - and it had all been lost.  Life was fleeting, this they both knew, but fear and grief were deep and penetrating and hard to shake.  

Instead, unable to speak the words that were forming in his mind, he reached out a hand, thick fingers resting on her shoulder, squeezing it tightly.   _I’m here.  I’m still with you._

Wide eyes turned on him, still watery with tears, lips parted in a silent gasp as her gaze locked with his, and he couldn’t read in her face what she was trying to tell him, couldn’t comprehend the desperation in her expression, until she shifted closer still, leaning into his chest, her chin tilted up as though asking for something that he wasn’t sure he could give.

‘Please, Daryl.  I need…’

He knew what she needed.  Temptation hung thick in the air between them, a line uncrossed so far that was blurring in the sand, tiny grains merging and slipping until the reason for that boundary was unclear, no longer important.  And he knew that, in reality, perhaps that boundary had never been consciously set or required.  This wasn’t about attraction, he was sure.  He was older than her and looking every one of those long, ragged years, whilst she was only a teenager when the world ended, still young now really, comparatively at least, but with a head full of experiences that no one of any age should have had to endure.

And so, when she wrapped her arms around his neck, he let her, and when her lips pressed against his, he kissed her back, letting the feel of her, the solidity, the simple pleasure of skin touching skin, caress his soul.  It was the same sensation he’d felt when she’d stroked her fingers over his face back on the first day they’d met, reassuring herself that he was real, standing in front of her, waiting to be invited in, and that calmed him during the long nights when she’d chase away his nightmares by tucking her body against his.  Now, he sought to bring her that same sense of peace, trailing his fingertips over every part of her that he could reach as clothing was shed, scarred skin revealed and accepted within the blink of an eye.  They were both real and there and alive in that moment, and, if that wasn’t enough to drive their passion and their want, then the mounting fear in her eyes as the storm drew nearer gave him even more reason to pull her close, sinking into her, distracting her busy mind from the elements as they battered the world outside.  

And it didn’t matter that he was out of practice, that his experience had been limited to say the least, even before, because as long as he was touching her, their bodies flush, warm from the physical exertion of the act, as long as her grip was biting in to the taut muscles of his arms and his hand was cupping the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, then that vibrant buzz that kept them both teetering on the edge was present, building, growing, until it exploded in a spark of blinding white heat that left them both seeing stars.

Afterwards, everything was still.  The storm raged on, drawing the waves higher and tossing the spray towards the cliffs, the wind ferocious, the thunder as deafening as it had been before, but inside the cave, nothing moved.  She lay with her face buried in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, and he held her, strong arms locked around her, determined to protect her, to keep her safe, even from the memories that sought to break her.  Never would he have imagined that his life would come to this, that after endless months, years without a single person by his side, he would end up being blessed by this angel that had come to him when he needed her the most.

Eventually, just as his eyes were growing grainy with sleep, insistent on closing even as he tried to hang on to the moment for a while longer, she sniffled and raised her head to look at him, scratching at his scruff to drag him back from the brink of unconsciousness.  

‘Thank you.’  Her voice was breathy, satisfied and yet tinged with that deep underlying sadness that he’d sensed in her for longer than he cared to admit.  ‘That was- I can’t even begin to tell you.’

He smiled, just a small twitch of his lips to let her know that she didn’t need to explain, that it had been for him too, a reminder of what it meant to be human, to cling to another person, to have that person clutch at you as if you were the sole reason for their continuing existence, which, he supposed, was exactly what they were to each other.

‘God, I wish you could talk,’ she whispered, and his heart broke.  He’d given her everything that he could, that he had it within him to give, but, try as he might, he just couldn’t force a single sound from his throat.  ‘What I wouldn’t give to hear your voice,’ she went on.  ‘It’s stupid, I know that.  Because you’re here and I’m not alone anymore, and you’ve made everything easier and better, you have, but…  I just wish you could talk to me.’

He felt it right down to his bones, that crushing sense of responsibility for another person’s disappointment.  It had followed him throughout his life, with his old man, his brother, and later with every death that he couldn’t prevent, and now it seemed that, once again, he was destined to let the person he loved the most down.  Because it wasn’t enough.  Of course, it wasn’t enough for him to just be there, to smile at her jokes and touch her as she wanted to be touched, and provide a presence by her side throughout the days.  She thrived on conversation, on swapping stories and sharing histories, and he couldn’t offer her that.  Though he undoubtedly quieted some of the more vicious voices in her head, he couldn’t chase away the silence that haunted her, perhaps even more than her memories, and that meant he could never be what she truly needed.

That weight sat heavy on his chest, even as he finally let sleep claim him, a welcome relief from the devastating realisation that had stolen away the quiet contentment that he’d been living in.  That broken whisper stole into his dreams, her look of hope shifting into one of sorrow when she realised that her pleas couldn’t ever repair those frayed vocal chords that refused to be coaxed into producing even the slightest, soft, rasping sound.  In his mind, she pushed him away, shoving him roughly from her until his back hit the jagged rock wall, and then, turning away from him, facing out into the dark clouds that gathered on the horizon, she screamed.

 

* * *

 

He woke in a panic, springing to his feet in a way that his muscles protested vehemently, unwilling to accept her absence until his eyes had combed every corner of the cave, squinting into the shadows, shaking his head in denial when lightning lit the space and revealed that it was indeed empty of any other sign of life.  Her pack was still where it had been, though most of the clothes that had been carelessly discarded were gone, and he spun towards the entrance, using one hand to steady himself as he peered out onto the beach.  

A single figure was standing on the sand, clad only in her threadbare knitted sweater and underwear, the water creeping up around her toes.  She looked almost ethereal as the storm swelled around her, a centre of calm as the elements spun out of control, and he opened his mouth to call her name, but, of course, no sound came out.

He dressed quickly, throwing on his pants, his shirt, the buttons done up all wrong as his fingers fumbled to fasten it, running a hand through his silvery locks to push them out of his eyes.  The next time he looked out into the chaos, he struggled to find her, the sky seeming to have darkened even further in the few minutes that had ticked by, but then there she was again, deeper into the ocean now, as it foamed around her ankles.  His breath hitched in his throat as she took a step forward, and another, and he went to shout again, fighting to get the words out, but nothing.  There was just nothing.

Moving on autopilot, the route familiar to him now, even if his hands were too big to comfortably cling on to the same crevices that she used and the rock was slippery beneath his touch, he crawled from the cave and began the descent to the shore, half-slithering down the surface, rough edges catching on his clothes, scratching at his skin, as he hurried to reach her.  He knew what she was doing.  He knew it and he hated it, and he hated that he wasn’t enough reason for her to want to stay.

And he knew with absolute certainty that if she died tonight, if she walked out into the waves and let them carry her away, that he would follow her into the inky depths.  He couldn’t do it again, the loneliness, the suffering, the endless time that stretched out in front of him.  He would be done if he couldn’t pull her back from this desperate and deadly brink.

Again and again, his throat constricted, the muscles pulsing and clenching as they fought to make a sound, to get anything - a whimper, a word, a shout, a scream - past his lips, but all he could manage was a hushed growl, and he wondered why he hadn’t made more use of his voice when he’d had it, pushing people away, monotonous and gruff.  But it was too late now, and his feet hit the sand, and he whirled around, searching for her outline in the darkness.

She was knee-deep in the icy flood, the waves crashing down around her, almost as if they might swallow her up at any moment, and he broke into a run, jolting, stumbling as the wet beach sunk and shifted under his weight.  He fell once, twice, catching himself on the palms of his hands and forcing himself upright, mouthing her name uselessly, fighting, always fighting.  

And then, as if sensing his presence, his fear, behind her, she turned, and, across the distance, their eyes met.  He knew she was crying again, knew it without seeing it, but he did catch the almost imperceptible shake of her head: an apology; a goodbye.  

 _No._  As he thought it, he tasted it on his tongue, and it brushed past his lips, a soft husk, barely a whisper, almost mistakable for a breath.  ‘No.’

The gap between them was closing, but the rain was coming down in stinging sheets, making a metre seem like a mile, and the wind stole away the whispers that he couldn’t stop repeating now that he’d found some remnant of his voice, recovered through desperation and stomach-churning dread.

The sky lit up with another flash of lightning, stunning Daryl for a split second and leaving spots dancing over his vision, as he continued blindly on, reaching, clutching, groping at the air, hoping to grab a hold of her and drag her back to safety.  But his fingers closed on nothing over and over again and, when he regained his sight, she was gone.

‘No!’  It wasn’t a shout, not by anybody’s standards, but it was the most volume he’d managed up ‘til now and it sounded strangled, choked, like there were long fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezing and distorting the sound, and then he really was being touched, hands clawing at his chest, a trembling body falling into him.

‘Daryl!’

‘Stay with me.’  He held her tightly, afraid to let her go, afraid to move now that the water was swirling around him, threatening to pull him under and out to sea.  ‘Don’t leave me, please.  Stay.’

‘Daryl, you’re talking!’  She threw her head back and a perfect, honeyed laugh of ecstasy poured from her, being stolen swiftly away by the wind, but it didn’t matter because she was reaching up to cup his face, the pads of her thumbs pressing at the corners of his mouth, and she was smiling, a genuine, beautiful smile.  ‘Oh God, it’s the most amazing sound!  Please, say something!  Anything!  Keep talking to me!’

And it wasn’t amazing, or anywhere near as wondrous as her reaction suggested, but at least he could say all the things he wanted to say to her, this woman who had saved him and stolen him from the clutches of despair, and he swept her up, cradling her against his chest as he turned for home, heading for the beach with long, determined strides, whispering to her all the while.  ‘I’m gon’ keep ya safe, ya hear me.  Ain’t gon’ let nothin’ happen to ya.  S’jus’ you ‘n’ me now, girl, ‘n’ ya can’t go doin’ shit like this.  Ya scared me all to hell.  I need ya, Y/N, ya gotta know that.  Can’t do this without ya now.  Gotta keep ya by my side, gotta keep ya here with me, or e’rythin- s’all jus’ gon’ fall apart.’

What little voice he had broke on the last word and then he was crying, they were both crying, clinging to each other, holding each other, and, though the storm continued to lash at the world around them, they were oblivious, lost in each other, in what they meant to each other, what each had become.  

‘I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry, Daryl.  I just… It was all too much.  The silence and the storm and the- and the-’

‘I know.’  He hushed her, placing her gently back on her feet as they reached the cliff wall.  ‘I know.  I’m sorry.  But I can’t lose ya, Y/N.  I can’t.’

‘You won’t.’  It was a promise sealed with a kiss, a gentle, chaste kiss that breathed life into his lungs and drove the fear from his body, adrenaline seeping away until he was unsure how he was even still standing with the exhaustion that rolled in to take its place.  ‘I promise, Daryl.  You won’t.  Let’s go home, okay?  Please.  Let’s go home.’

The climb felt strenuous after the ordeal, made worse by the weather that refused to desist in its torment and the shivers that loosened their grip and weakened their muscles, but they helped each other, lending a hand when one was needed, murmuring soft words of encouragement that got washed away by the rain, and, when they finally reached the lip of the cave where they could both find their relief, it was side by side.  Soaking wet clothes were discarded once again, this time more urgently and with less anticipation, and warm replacements were offered, a thinning blanket shared without discussion as they huddled together against the fire’s feeble remains, seeking heat and comfort and reassurance that this was a beginning and not an end, and that everything from this moment on would be okay.

 

* * *

 

By morning, the storm had passed and it was to a more peaceful world that the two of them awoke.  A watery sun was edging its way into the sky, hovering above a sea that was as still and calm as the empty beach.  The sand was littered with driftwood, discarded there as the waves had receded, and, once it had dried in the heat of the day, it would serve them well to get the little fire going once again.  But not yet.  

Neither of them moved as they let the stillness wash over them, limbs tangled, bodies warm as they watched each other blink sleep away, memories of last night urging them to pull each other closer, hold on a while longer.  And when she finally fidgeted and lifted her face to his, he couldn’t help but smile at her worried whisper.  

‘It wasn’t a dream, was it?  Last night… You spoke to me.’

‘I did.’  It was a croak more than an answer, but it was something, a promise of improvement and more to come, and she beamed at him, relief flooding her features.  ‘G’morning.’

‘Good morning.’

And the beach woke up with them, gulls cawing as they dipped in and out of the water, eating their fill from the flurry of fish that had been stirred up, thrown off track by the ferocious currents whipped up overnight.  And, when they finally ventured out of their cave, climbing down to feel that the sand was warm beneath their toes, their fingers laced together, they fell into step instinctively, side by side, heading up the beach and letting the sunlight kiss their skin.  It was going to be a good day, Daryl thought, as he so often did when she was beside him.  It was going to be a good life, for however long he had left.


End file.
